


Heart to Heart

by mother_finch



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Gen, Other, mother-finch fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-28
Updated: 2015-09-28
Packaged: 2018-04-23 18:56:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4888183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mother_finch/pseuds/mother_finch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>PROMPT: root and fusco brotp prompt: root hasn't been the same since shaw was taken and she's been stand offish. fusco finds her at a diner one night by herself and tells her it'll work out. shaw is a trooper and he's just there for her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heart to Heart

"Chocolate chip pancakes and an orange juice coming right up," the waitress says, over zealous smile plastered to her face as she finishes scribbling down the order. She clicks the bottom of the pen against her notepad, stowing both away in her apron before walking off for the kitchen. Root keeps her eyes trained on the waitress- watching as the smile falls away when she thinks no one else is looking.

"She a number or something?"

Root peels her eyes from the middle aged woman, turning her face to the right. To  _Shaw_.

* * *

 

"Not unless you  _know_  something I don't," Root responds with a coy smile, looking down at her napkin. She plays with the silverware, swapping the spoon and the knife before dragging the teeth of the fork along the napkin's surface.

"So you just watch people for  _fun_  now?" Shaw asks in a snarky tone, and Root feels a chuckle rising to her throat. She peeks to over to Shaw, taking in her black coat and sharp jaw and hair tied back tight.

She can't remember why they always sit on the same side of the booth, just that they do. Like they're waiting for someone. However, Root would never complain with the seating arrangement, and looking at Shaw's calm profile, Root's sure Shaw wouldn't either.  _Mostly sure._

" _You_  call it watching," Root tells her, angling more Shaw's way as the waitress places the order down in front of Root. " _I_  call it observing."

Shaw snorts, shaking her head, and looks out the window. She peels up a piece of the blinds, allowing the street lamp's light to splash against her eyes as she peers out nonchalantly.

"You need a new hobby," Shaw mutters to her, letting go of the blinds with suddenly tired eyes. Root looks at the clock on the wall- it's ten thirty at night.  _She either woke up early or didn't get much sleep_. Root thinks of a witty way to ease into the question, all the while Shaw swipes Root's orange juice. Taking a large gulp, she nods her head forward.

"Our mutual friend's just shown up," Shaw tells her, swallowing the icy beverage hard, placing it back on the table before Root. Root, curious, takes her gaze from Shaw and finds Detective Lionel Fusco walking her way.

_________\ If Your Number's Up /__________

 _Ten twenty p.m_. At ten twenty p.m., Lionel Fusco should be slugging down his sixth cup of coffee. At ten twenty p.m., he should be standing over a body, trying to come to terms with what the poor sap did that made murder a better option than way of law, and why it couldn't wait until tomorrow. At ten twenty p.m., he should be fuming over the whereabouts of John Reese, and why Reese couldn't at least drop him a line.  _But what am I doing instead?_  Fusco mutters to himself in annoyance.  _I'm tracking down the nutcase of the century_.

He'd gotten a call about a half hour ago- Harold Finch. As he'd put it, their lady associate was missing in action. Not too big of a deal, Fusco thought, and voiced as much. But they both knew, deeper down, that it was more than a case of chasing numbers alone. And so, when Finch explained Root's extended leave of absence, and the fact that she had agreed to meet Harold two hours ago, Fusco grudgingly agreed. Grudgingly just to convince himself- to convince them both- that it was pointless. That everything's fine. That's she's fine.  _I hope to God she's fine._

The truth is, Fusco hasn't the faintest idea if Root is okay. Root, the hacker; the psycho; the off-her-rocker, gun happy member of their not-so orthodox team. If anyone would be alright, Fusco always thought it would be her. Now, he's unsure.

Ever since the stock exchange, she'd been different. She was always changing, but this was something drastic. Something dynamic.  _It was Shaw_ , Fusco says to himself for the umpteenth time,  _it had to be Shaw._

Sameen Shaw, their small ball of Persian fury was something of an anchor for Root's free floating disposition. She was an assurance that Root would be around. An incentive for Root to come home. Root was good, but she was always better with Shaw. It was like Shaw was a connecting wire between Root and a different reality, and Root became someone different. But then, Shaw was taken.  _Gone_. And after the wire snapped, Root- without Shaw as much as she tried to deny that very fact- was...  _Lost,_  Fusco decides.  _Left to drift away in the current_. It was as if Root knew who she was until Shaw was gone. The wire snapped. So Root was left to wonder, who was she then?

 _She doesn't know_ , Fusco thinks gravely.  _She has no idea_. She turned dark and stormy, like an F5 tornado waiting to touch down. Then, she was pretending. She pretended like everything was fine in her world. She pretended like the sky was blue and the air was warm and that her head wasn't drowning in the aftermath of a hurricane. Until all that pretending broke her. She became more reckless than usual- than ever. She belonged to no one save for dauntless nights and fate-tempting mornings. All the way until the hazardous fire in her heart died out. Maybe it was when Shaw was taken from her again- only a hair too late to bring her back. Maybe it was when the Machine admitted failure to save Sameen. Or maybe it was when Root admitted to that same failure for herself. Whatever the occasion, she turned to stone. The life in her eyes drained and her mouth filled with cement. Her limbs turned to rock and her soul solidified to limestone, ever so steadily eroding to nothing.

 _She's become so quiet- so stand offish- that she's merely another ghost in the system._ It's come to the point where Lionel doesn't know if Root's there and silent, or gone entirely. She shies away from all contact, curling up inside of herself and never coming out.  _She's only getting worse._ She stiffly works the numbers, she stiffly stands in the subway station, and she stiffly responds to questions with the shortest string of syllables. It's as if she doesn't feel comfortable anywhere, not even in her own skin. Whether she eats or sleeps is unknown, but the bags under her eyes and the ever-growing divots at her cheeks give a good hint. And as much as Fusco can deny it, it worries him. It worries them all.

And so, at- now- ten twenty-five at night, Fusco finds himself entering a run down diner a little while from the city. The lights are dim and coated with uneven layers of dust, which leaves the room bathed in an odd pattern of light. The booths are covered with a faded red plastic, and stuffing peeks out of rough incisions. There are only two workers in the establishment, one of which has his head stuck out the back window as he lights a cigarette.

A waitress of about forty with curly hair pulled into a lopsided bun sees him, then starts in his direction with curious eyes. Her white-sneakered feet barely make a sound against the thick, green carpet, although a fine puff of dirt scuttles into the air with each step.

"You lost?" She asks in a polite voice, leaning against the hostess podium manned only by a few spider webs.

"I'm, uh, actually here to meet a friend," he tells her, thinking back to Harold's request. He'd given Fusco an address and a set of concerned eyes. "Dark curly hair, kinda tall. She wears a lotta'  _black_." The woman's eyes light up at once, then ease back to normal as a smile spreads across her round face.

"I'm so glad she decided to invite a friend this time," she gushes with an almost crush-like awe towards Fusco. Then, her tone drops with the slant of her lips. "How  _late_  are you? She's been sitting here a little while. Can I get you something?"

"Uhm... coffee. Whadaya mean, ' _this_  time'?" Fusco asks curiously.

"She's always here," the waitress responds. "Well, almost always. Always orders the same thing. I ask her what she wants, but we already know the answer," she continues, nodding her head the other worker's way.

"She ever come with anyone else?" He questions, looking past the waitress and towards the booths. The entire place is a ghost town except one booth at the far back corner. Squinting, he can make out the outline of Root's features as she looks towards the drawn window.

"Never," the waitress replies, slowly walking down the aisle and peering pitifully Root's way. "It's like she's in her own little world. She'll sit there, smile sometimes- never say a word. And then I'll say somethin' to her, or Joey'll drop the dishes, and she gets all...  _sad_. It's a real shame."

"Any idea why she comes here?" Fusco says with an absent mind, following the waitress with inaudible steps, trying his best to sneak up to the table. The closer he gets, the more he can tell she isn't looking at the window. Rather, her eyes are focused just shy of it, and while she doesn't say a word, her eyes shimmer with silent conversation. Fusco's heart hiccups a little, nervousness mounting.

"It's definitely not for our outstanding  _food_  quality," the waitress snorts, then shoots him an apologetic look. "I mean, it's decent, but I've sure had better."

Just then, Root looks up, eyes connecting curiously to Fusco's. A small, crooked smile teeters at the edge of her lips when she spots him- something Fusco hasn't seen in quite a while.

"Lionel," she coos in a timid tone, and he lifts his eyebrows, stepping up to the booth.

"Nut Ball," he counters, then points to the seat across from her. "Mind if I sit?" She gives him a nod, and he cautiously eases down. Root turns her gaze to the side, stops- sighs. Shaking her head, she pinches the bridge of her nose, resting her elbow on the tabletop. "You okay?" He asks her, eyeing her with concern.  She blinks hard, then releases her nose, looking up at him with sad eyes and a strained smile.

"Headache," she responds, transforming once more into stone.  _No,_  Fusco says to himself, eyes hardening and teeth grinding in determination.  _She's not doing that again._

"What are ya sitting around  _here_  for?" He asks, leaning into the table with what he hopes is a cunning smile. "The lively atmosphere?" Root doesn't even laugh, merely looks down at her plate and back up as the waitress stops by, handing Lionel a steaming mug. They share a glance, then she stands at the head of the table, as if waiting for Root to act anything other than ghostly.

"Can I get you anything to eat, hun?" The waitress asks, trying to ease her way into the awkward air.

"I dunno," Fusco replies, focus entirely on Root. She squirms slightly under his gaze, eyes trying to stray away from his. "What's good here?" His question is directed at Root as he takes in a large mouthful of his piping hot beverage.

"Not the coffee," she mutters, and he spits it back into the mug. Pulling a face and running his tongue over his teeth, he grunts.

"Just give whatever she's got," he tells the waitress in an irritated tone, pushing the mug to the center of the table.

"Take mine," Root tells him, sliding her plate across. "I'm done."

" _Done_?" He echoes skeptically, eyeing the untouched meal. "Y'haven't even  _started_."

"I have a headache," she responds in a flat manner, eyes becoming annoyed.

"That's not a  _stomach_  ache," he points out, then nods at the waitress. "I'll have one of whatever she's having," he repeats, and she hurries away.

Root turns her head back to the window, eyes concentrating on the blinds. They search for something, or rather, they travel. It's like they're running, her mind trying to make it back to the place she was before Lionel strolled through the door.

"What do you want, Lionel?" She asks at last, tired sigh in her voice as she tears her eyes from the dusty blinds. Fusco taps his fingers against the table for a minute, unsure how to answer. Finally, he decides to be blunt and honest.

"To talk."

__________\ We'll Find You /___________

"Talk about what?" Root asks finally, the minutes stretching by like little eternities.

"What's bothering you," Fusco replies, voice sincere and eyes serious. She looks him over, studies him, then gives him a smile.

"Nothing's bothering me."

"Yeah, and I'm the  _Pope_ ," Fusco spits back sarcastically, then sits back in his side of the booth. "C'mon, Root. I wanna know." _I already know,_  he adds silently to himself, _what I really want is for you to say it out loud._

Root looks down at the dull, crackling cushion to her left. With all the space in the world, she's sitting at the very edge, leaving the other three quarters completely vacant. She looks as if she might slide over to the center, but something sharp pierces her brown eyes, and she peers back up to Fusco without budging.

"It's Shaw," he states at last, hoping that it will prompt some small answer from her. At the name alone, her eyes fill with a haunting hurt, as if she pricked her finger with a needle a thousand times. Root presses her lips together tight, then gives a short nod.

"She's gone..." Root says in a vacant tone. "We let her get taken."

"No," Fusco says, something like appalled horror in his tone. "She  _locked_  us in an  _elevator_." Root shakes her head, as if she doesn't believe a word.

"We didn't make her stay; we didn't go back; we didn't  _find_  her-"

"And  _none_  of that's for lack of trying," he points out, unsure how to handle the situation. He wants to scream at her and shake her. Like one of his witnesses that doesn't want to confess to what they've seen. He wants to put an arm around her and comfort her. Like she's his son when he was seven and afraid of the dark. "We did what we could. You did all that you could to find her."

"I asked for her help that day," Root tells him, voice truly haunted with the memory and hollowed with the guilt. "She was only there because of  _me_." Lionel's face drops as he watches her sanity unravel before him. "I called her to help us out, and she  _went out there_ to get us out. She shouldn't have been there. She was supposed to stay off Samaritan's radar, and I brought her right  _to_  them." Both are silent a moment, Root swallowing her demons and Fusco trying to understand them.

"You couldn't have known that would happen," Fusco whispers in a stunned manner, his own voice swimming in his ears. Root's jaw clenches.

"But I should have done  _something_.  _I_  should've hit the override button;  _I_  should have held them off-"

"And you think that would make this  _any_  bett-

"There  _had_  to be another option," Root demands, snapping. "The Machine sees  _millions_  of different outcomes, there  _had_  to be at least  _one_  better option." Her eyes widen as her lip fidgets, trying to maintain control. "There had to be  _something_  we could throw, or shoot, or some way to do something. I think everyday if there could have been anything- an-ny- _thing_  that could have kept all of us on that elevator."

Silence.

"There wasn't any better option," Fusco tells her at last, gaze cast down at the table. Suddenly, it all seems clear to him why she walks around so heavily. All of this presses down like it's the weight of universe on her shoulders.

"She's been out there for months." Root's voice is all but inaudible, and she closes her eyes. "And I don't even know if Sameen's alive, or if she's dead." Fusco watches her a minute, eyes taking every last detail of her in. Even with her eyes closed, none of her is relaxed. Every muscle is pulled taut, eyelids fluttering as memories play in her eyes like a slasher film, and her fingers constantly wring themselves out on the table.

"She's alive," Fusco responds with a solid belief in his voice. It's enough to make Root open her eyes, their gaze finally clear as they bore into him.

"How do you know?" She asks. The way she looks at him, he knows that she believes him. She isn't talking without listening, she isn't tuning them all out because she can't stand to listen anymore- she just wants to hear his answer, and will believe what he has to say.

"She's tough," he replies, just at the waitress drops his meal off. " _And_ ," he adds, a playful flicker lighting in his eyes. "If this  _is_  all your fault like you say, she won't die until she gets a chance to kick your ass for it." Root looks at him a moment, smiles, then gives the smallest of chuckles. It's a start, he knows, and he takes it gladly. "Besides," he tells her, pouring watered-down syrup onto his plate, "what does she have,  _five_  lives left anyway?"

"Six," Root corrects, pulling her plate back in and beginning to cut it up.

"All the better," Fusco responds, shoveling a large bite of pancakes into his mouth. His eyes bulge and he coughs, choking it down. "What the Hell  _is_  this?" He blurts, holding the sorry excuse of a pancake at the end of his fork. "I've had  _cardboard_  better than this."

"I guess it's just an acquired taste," Root responds with a smile, grin widening at his slight burst of irritation. Then, her eyes sadden again, as if the idea of eating anything here gives her a memory tinged with ice. Fusco, unsure what a run-down diner with an undrinkable cup of coffee could stir up, decides that it has to be avoided.  _She needs to forget, not remember._

"It'll work out," Fusco assures her, honesty and true confidence in his voice. "We'll find her. The sooner we find Samaritan, the sooner she'll be back pretending to hate everyone except the dog." Root grins, as if the prospect of being cold shouldered and loathed has never sounded more pleasing.

"Thanks, Lionel," Root says softly, and he gives her a questioning look. "It was a good talk." He nods, slightly awkward, then wipes his hands on a napkin.

"If you wanna talk again, you let me know, okay? We'll go somewhere with  _real_  food." Root's mouth quirks up in a lopsided smile, a glimpse of her old self flashing before Fusco slightly. He can't help but grin back, happy to see life return to her too sad for too long eyes.


End file.
